


embraced

by sunfish



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27444229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunfish/pseuds/sunfish
Summary: Some loose threads need tying up.
Relationships: Mercedes von Martritz/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10
Collections: Femslash Exchange 2020





	embraced

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SophieAyase](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophieAyase/gifts).



> Hi! I hope you like this fic. I played around with various ideas and realized what I had the most fun writing was some Mercedes-centric hurt and comfort. For some context, this set post-war and involves the Death Knight, particularly Caspar and Mercedes' paralogue and the mini cutscene of his death in the Fort Merceus battle (Chapter 20) in Azure Moon. The timeline is a bit wonky but I suppose this could be an alternate S support.
> 
> I ended up with something about sad feelings being messy to deal with, but I hope it comes off as ultimately sweet and loving.

Mercedes wakes up in a groggy sweat. For a brief second she only comprehends the scratchy wool of her blanket and the light of morning coming in through the window. And then everything else returns to her.

The first always to return is her brother. She doesn't cry. She already cried right beside him, she cried after the war was won, and she's cried just about every night now before falling asleep. At this point, she mustn’t have any crying left in her.

Still, the gaping hollow in Mercedes' chest remains. Maybe it's all the tears, expelling so much from her body, digging the grave inside herself that she couldn't on the battlefield. She curls and uncurls her fists. She can’t do this.

Pushing away the image of her brother’s cream hair in her lap, Mercedes considers how to prepare herself for the day. There is still much to be done, much to rebuild and rehabilitate. His Highness and Dedue left for Fhirdiad yesterday, others remained in Enbarr to keep the peace in the immediate aftermath of the Emperor’s death, and others left for their homes in other regions, leaving a lot of political work here to do. Though Garreg Mach was once ostensibly a politically neutral institution, there's no question now that it will be heavily involved in the reunification of Fódlan; no more reactive charity.

Still, on the ground there’s also still many daily needs to attend to, particularly in transitioning from a military headquarter to a functional monastery again. (That made it easy to jot a quick letter to her adoptive father that she was still needed here for the time being. She has not written to her mother yet about what she knows.) In other words, Mercedes knows there's no time to just lie here in bed and indulge her sadness. Besides, it’s better to keep her hands busy. The list of tasks starts unfurling in her mind: attending to soldiers’ deeper injuries; washing the children’s bedding; picking vegetables for dinner tonight; cleaning the stables—

There's a knock on the door.

“I’ll be there in a moment, excuse me,” Mercedes says, throwing a long shawl over her nightclothes. She hurriedly runs a hand through her hair before cracking open the door. 

A rush of both pleasant surprise and sickness strikes Mercedes once her eyes spot her jade hair. When was the last time they talked for more than a few minutes of organizational check-in?

“Good morning, Mercedes.”

“Good morning, Profe—I mean, Archbishop Byleth,” Mercedes replies, opening the door fully.

Byleth frowns slightly. “You can just call me ‘Byleth.’”

Mercedes nods, embarrassed. “I apologize, I just wanted to honor your new title, especially since you’re not really a professor of Garreg Mach anymore.”

Byleth shakes her head. “There’s no need to be so formal now when we’ve fought together so many times,” she states, casual and blunt.

“Yes,” Mercedes says, not looking her in the eyes.

She glances over Mercedes’ shoulders. “If it’s okay, may I come in?”

Mercedes steps aside, and Byleth enters. Closing the door behind her, she looks at Byleth standing in the front of the window, the daylight shining behind her. Though she’s the shorter one of the two, Byleth appears regal, a glowing presence. She’s never been told exactly what happened to Byleth, neither when she reappeared from the void with new hair or when she emerged after five years of the war, seemingly unaged. Over the past several months, Mercedes grew to believe that it’s more likely than not that Byleth is an angel delivered from the goddess; a blessing sent to Garreg Mach to save all of Fódlan. (And would that not grant her the right to carry out divine justice?)

Seeing Byleth’s eyes on her, she remembers how she looks and wraps her shawl tighter around herself. “I’m sorry for how under-dressed I am. I didn’t realize how long I had slept.”

Byleth shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. I know I’m visiting you fairly early in the morning.”

“Oh,” Mercedes blinks, “Is there something important you wanted to discuss then?”

“Well…” Byleth fidgets for a second and then moves towards the bed, sitting down. “Yes.”

Mercedes follows, sitting beside her. Closer, she notices how Byleth’s hair is a bit unkempt, the dark circles under her eyes, and that she’s still wearing the exact same clothes from yesterday (it’s not difficult to recognize the same red tomato stains from cooking yesterday’s dinner).

“Did you get any sleep last night?” Mercedes asks.

“…Yes.” Byleth hunches her back and looks at the floor, elbows on her knees.

“How much?”

“At least a few hours,” Byleth sighs, “There’s still a lot to do.”

“Pr—Byleth, you need to take better care of yourself. You’re too important,” Mercedes insists.

“And what about you?”

“Me?”

Byleth doesn’t answer but just sits up straight and looks Mercedes in the eye. Despite the obvious weariness otherwise, Byleth’s gaze is so clear-eyed and piercing, it almost makes Mercedes flinch. Immediately, she realizes why Byleth knocked on her door.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Mercedes says, shying away from Byleth’s gaze, “please—”

“Are you doing okay?”

Mercedes’ face flushes. “Please, don’t worry about me.”

“Why not?”

“It’s very kind of you to check in, but I really am doing fine. As you said yourself, I know you’re busy as the new archbishop.”

Byleth’s brows furrow as she breaks eye contact and glances down, “When you were on the battlefield, after I killed Emile—”

Mercedes gasps at the name. She leans away to hide her face. This isn’t right, Byleth is their hero and savior. The Death Knight—He was about to kill Annette, and Mercedes would’ve been next without a doubt, if it wasn’t for Byleth. She knows this. She knows this.

She’s struck by the tears streaming down her cheeks. How does she have any left? It isn’t until Mercedes feels Byleth’s hand on hers that she realizes that she’s also trembling.

“I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize,” she says, sniffling. “I know this isn’t rational.”

“I’m sorry that I haven’t talked with you earlier until now.” Byleth lightly squeezes her hand. “There was a lot still going on but I still should’ve, I wish—” she sighs, “I wish things had turned out differently. I wish we could’ve saved him.”

At this Mercedes bursts into a full sob. She can barely feel Byleth wrap her arms around her now, she only sees Emile ducking behind a tree during hide-and-seek, laughing with cream on his nose, guarding at the center of Fort Merceus, showing off the stray kitten he found, picking out roses from the garden for Constance, swinging his darkened scythe at Ashe, eating sorbet in the summer, giving her the Rafail Gem; the memories keep cascading and she can barely breathe.

The tears eventually stop and instantly, slumber takes over.

* * *

Mercedes wakes up in a groggy sweat. For a second, she only considers how the wool blankets are tousled. The summer daylight is strong, warming the room. Within that second, as she shifts her body, she realizes there’s an arm around her waist. Twisting her neck, she recognizes the charcoal cloak, the ends of her celadon hair; everything else returns to Mercedes at once.

She anxiously inhales, and gently turns herself under Byleth’s arm to take a closer look: her resting face, the truly disheveled state of her hair, the curl of her wrist with her other arm tucked in towards her chest, her relaxed breathing. She soaks in the image. It’s so picture perfect, it’s so human, fully flesh and blood, that Mercedes’ chest wells up with something indescribable: half awe, half guilt, half anger, half despair, half desire, all overflowing.

Byleth’s eyes lazily open and blink. She meets Mercedes’ stare almost immediately.

“You’re awake.”

Mercedes nods, a slow blush of self-consciousness creeping across her face. “Yes, just now.”

For a moment Byleth doesn’t move and doesn’t lift her arm. The weight of it on her body is so pleasant that Mercedes quietly wishes time wouldn’t pass. And then Byleth quietly sits up, yawning.

“How do you feel?” Byleth asks, casually shaking out her hair, not a single tangle untangled.

Mercedes also sits up, shifting her legs to the side. “I’m not quite sure. I still feel tired.”

“That’s fine. I’m glad to hear you speak more honestly.”

Mercedes doesn’t respond to that. After stretching her shoulders and neck, Byleth moves back to sitting on the edge of bed, looking towards the window.

“When I saw you cry over his body, I knew I had made a mistake, but I also couldn’t do anything about it. I don’t regret my decision that day because it meant saving others, but he was still your brother and I hurt you,” Byleth turns toward her, “I’m sorry for that.”

This time she doesn’t shy away from her gaze; it pierces, and then it melts. Contradicting impulses bounce around inside Mercedes and any words she could say are stuck in her throat.

Byleth eventually breaks eye contact and sighs. “There is no one else as kind or giving in Fódlan as you, Mercedes. You've done so much for us, for me,” she states, so calmly, so assuredly it makes Mercedes’ heart race. “I remember when you offered to help me as a professor in my early days here and you've made good on that promise in ways I couldn't imagine."

Byleth's eyes grow soft and a tinge of a smile briefly flickers on her face. Mercedes' chest simultaneously grows tight and opens up.

"You deserve so much more than what I was able to do for you," Byleth sighs, "and I'm sorry for that. You may think I'm too important to let down, but so are you. I don't…I don't want you to sacrifice your grief for me.” 

There’s a flutter and a crack inside Mercedes’ chest.

"Even if what you need is to leave you alone—"

“No, please don’t think that,” she pleads. “I…It was a long time ago. My mother and I couldn’t stay at House Bartels anymore but we left Emile behind, and we never returned…I don’t know why we did that, or what happened in the years since, but…there’s nothing you could’ve done.” She sighs and clasps her hands. “Not even I could stop him then…”

“And that’s not your fault either,” Byleth says, gently putting a hand on Mercedes’ shoulder. “You shouldn’t stop yourself from feeling sad, but please be easier on yourself.”

Mercedes feels herself unfurl. Maybe it’s crying, maybe the nap, but all she wants to do is lean into Byleth and let herself be embraced, which Mercedes does. Byleth is not a naturally warm person—literally—but she’s never felt so comfortable in someone else’s arms until now. They bask in the open silence for some time.

“Byleth.”

“Yes?”

“If…if you could stay by side, I…I don’t hate you. I could never.”

She feels Byleth's exhale. “I’ll stay as long as you need.”

“Thank you,” she says, on the drift of another, warmer slumber.


End file.
